Unequivocally
by S. Faith
Summary: Valentine's Day has never been particularly special to Mark. Until now. Book universe.


**Unequivocally**

By S. Faith, © 2008

Words: 3,066

Rating: T / PG-13

Summary: Valentine's Day has never been particularly special to Mark. Until now.

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Notes: **Book universe.** Funny how Valentine's Day is not even mentioned in the movie, even though when it starts, they're six weeks into their relationship (which is… six weeks into the year). Plus, the ski trip in the movie is the opposite of pleasant, whereas the ski weekend in the book is _lovely_.

ETA: corrected name where appropriate. Whoops.

* * *

_Tuesday 4 February_

Given the choice, he never would have gone to New York City at this point of his life for two weeks, a period equal to about fifty percent of the total time he'd been seeing her. But New York was where he was, like it or not, and as he travelled by taxi, watched snow covering the city in grey flannel, watched the residents shuffle through the flurries with scarves and gloves and hats, he thought he had never seen a gloomier winter day.

He thought about the disappointment he'd heard in her voice when he'd called her to tell her of this last-minute trip, even though she'd tried valiantly to hide it. It made him miss her more. He'd never much cared for the Valentine holiday before; it had always seemed such a heavy-handed commercially endorsed one-upmanship rather than a focus on genuine shows of affection. This year was very different though, and when he'd been told he could not get out of travelling to New York for the first Valentine's Day he actually cared about….

It was going to be a very long two weeks.

"Sir, your hotel."

He snapped out of his haze. The yellow taxi had come to a stop in front of the Plaza Hotel. "Thank you," he said; it came out a little more curtly than he'd intended. He chalked it up to fatigue, to jet lag, to the time difference. "Thank you," he said again in a gentler tone, forcing himself to smile.

He paid the fare as liveried busboys came to gather his luggage, an action that always made him feel slightly guilty, even though he knew it was their job. He approached the front desk wearily, setting his attaché down on the counter. As he checked in, the concierge looked at her screen, surprise registering on her face for a split second before she raised her eyes to him again with a suppressed smirk.

"You have a message already, Mr Darcy."

It was his turn to be surprised. "A message?"

She turned to where the mail slots were, found his and read the slip of paper within. She then reached down and pulled up a heart-shaped box, presenting it to him with a giant, toothy smile.

"Well," said the concierge, "not a message, per se."

He accepted the box, the front of which had a little folded card attached to it that read _Do not open until 14 Feb_. He found himself smiling again, and this time it was completely genuine. She hadn't signed it, but he knew it was from her. From Bridget.

"Thank you," he said to the woman, then cradled the heart in the crook of his elbow.

Upon arriving in his suite, he went for the telephone and, with the assistance of the front desk, placed a call to Bridget's number. There was no answer, and he chose not to leave a message, but it was nice just to hear her voice, even if it was only a tinny recording.

It seemed only right that he should have her heart; after all, he pondered, she most definitely had his.

…

_Sunday 8 February_

As luck would have it—or, rather, the lack of it—he had not been able to actually get Bridget on the phone, mostly due to his schedule and the fact that London was five hours ahead. He reflected on a conversation he'd had with a friend of Bridget's who also happened to be in New York, a woman called Rebecca, very friendly and eager to offer advice on what to do for Bridget to make up for missing Valentine's Day, a recommendation for a ski resort in Courchevel that she'd been going to for years; there was no reason for him to stay in New York over the weekend, anyhow. The more he thought about it, the more the whole notion sounded ideal, and he hoped Bridget would like it. He intended on making sure she had a weekend to remember, regardless of her skill level on the slopes.

He looked again at the chocolate heart, smiling. He hadn't actually opened it, not that she would ever know if he did, but it wouldn't have felt right to do so. The heart-shaped box was not particularly large, but the lid was tastefully decorated in a sort of Victorian ribbon and lace style, charming in an old-fashioned way. That she had taken the time to pick it out for him, to have it waiting for him when he arrived at the hotel, meant more to him than the actual item did.

He'd arrange the ski weekend tomorrow… today, however, he would go out and do a little shopping so that he might have a special gift for her as well. And what Valentine's Day would be complete without roses?

…

_Friday 14 February_

When the phone in his room rang at 6:45 A.M., he was standing in the loo; he'd just gotten out of the shower, had finished shaving, and was packing his travel bag for check out. Thinking it might be word about the ETA of his taxi to the airport, he picked it up. "This is Darcy," he said in greeting, his voice professional as always.

There was silence on the other end. "Mark?"

It was Bridget. His free hand came up to cradle the receiver. "Yes, it's me."

"I just got the roses." Her voice sounded unsteady and laden with emotion. "I—thank you. They're lovely."

"Happy Valentine's Day, Bridget," he said tenderly.

"Happy Valentine's," she said in return. He heard her sniff. "I wish you weren't away, though."

"I'll see you tomorrow."

He could hear the smile, the spark, return to her voice when she spoke: "That's true. 'Mystery mini-break', hm?"

"Yes," he said, pleased to have piqued her interest so thoroughly. "Thank you for the chocolate heart. Having that box with me has been like having a little bit of you here."

"I'm glad you liked it." He could but imagine the smug smile on her face. "You didn't sneak it open, did you?"

"Absolutely not."

"What flavour did you like best?"

He chuckled. "It's not yet seven here. It's a little early for chocolates."

"Oh, right. Though I can't agree it's too early for chocolate."

At this proclamation his grin widened. "I'd expect no less from you. Listen, Bridget," he said, glancing to his watch, "I'm sorry I wasn't able to call you as much as I'd've liked, and I hate to cut this short now, but I have to leave for the airport."

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Mark," she said. "Safe travels, and see you on the other side."

"It's all right," he said. "And I'll see you then."

…

_Saturday, 15 February_

He felt refreshed and cheerful. It would have been impossible to feel otherwise: Courchevel's skies were blue and cloudless, causing the blankets of snow to gleam bright white; from beneath the brim of her knit cap, Bridget smiled up at him before glancing down the ski run. Of the two, he thought the latter had more to do with his outstandingly good mood.

Bridget was adorable there on the slopes. She tried to bluff being a more advanced skier than she was, but he could tell almost immediately that she was a novice, more or less revealed by her skittish behaviour on the nursery slope. He might be able to teach her a little bit in their short time there… but in all honesty, skiing was not the focus of his weekend.

He was determined to make up missing the day itself to Bridget with a special dinner, just the two of them, but Bridget seemed distracted by the presence of her friend, asking where he had seen Rebecca that she was able to recommend Courchevel; when he told her he'd seen Rebecca in New York, Bridget looked like she might faint, at which he chuckled and gave her a solid hug. That was when the moment from this weekend so far that would be indelibly etched in his mind occurred: her reaction when he said he loved her; he said it close to her ear while she was in his arms, and she immediately pulled back to look at him. He would never forget the slightly surprised yet emotional expression on her face, the unbidden gloss to her eyes that she tried to blink away. It wasn't anything he planned to say, but it certainly wasn't as if he didn't mean it. He did. And as he was saying it, he realised he _had_ loved her, truly loved her, for some time.

Dinner was wonderful; he always enjoyed his conversations with her, and tonight was no different. He gave her a little detail about what he'd been summoned to New York to do, and she as usual offered her unique opinions on the situation, but only a little. They were not at dinner to discuss his work.

He insisted on their having dessert. She demurred but had ganache-covered chocolate cake and another glass of champagne.

"Well," he said as she threaded her arm though his elbow, leaning into him a little as they left the restaurant, "shall we retire for the night?"

She smiled, nodding.

Upon returning to the room, he presented her with the gift, which he had bought for her in New York. "Oh!" she said. "Let me get mine for you."

He was beyond floored. He could not recall a time when any woman he'd happened to be seeing had bought him anything in return for Valentine's, not even so much as a heart-shaped box of chocolate like she'd already given him (and from which he figured she'd pinch the majority of the chocolates). He certainly wasn't expecting more.

She returned from her wheeled suitcase and gave him a little box, insisting he open it first. Inside, he found and, with a great big smile, pulled out a pair of boxers and a keychain bearing the logo of the Newcastle United football team. He chuckled as he unfurled the boxers, held them up, then folded them again. "These are marvellous," he said, still grinning.

"Do you really like them?"

"Of course I do." He set the box aside, leaned forward and kissed her. "Thank you. Now open yours."

Her fingers moved along the edge of the box tentatively. "You really didn't have to, after the roses, and this fantastic trip," she said, meeting his gaze.

"That gift isn't completely altruistic," he said. "Just open it."

Smirking, she did as asked, and beamed a smile when she pulled the red nightie up out of the box. "Oh, it's gorgeous," she said, running her fingers over the fabric. "Silk."

"Yes."

It struck him suddenly that even though they'd had a good part of the day together, he hadn't made love to her since just after the fiasco with the housekeeper's son (naked and with baby rabbit in his bedroom) on the second of February; his mind flashed to the memory of her, beautifully bare, in his own candlelit bedroom… and he realised that he very much wanted to see her in that nightie.

"I'll put it on, shall I?" she asked in a low voice, looking almost in a trance state; he wondered how obvious his thoughts were.

He nodded, not trusting his voice to speak.

She took the nightie to the loo with her; he lowered the lights, stoked the fire in the hearth, pulled back the sheets and duvet, stripped out of his clothes, and climbed into bed.

She emerged from the bathroom unsurely. His breath caught in his throat. Something about the red silk against her pale skin, pulled taut across her breasts and hips, all illuminated by firelight, made his heart race.

"It's a little snug," she said. "Maybe I had one too many grappas."

Only belatedly did he realise that perhaps the sizing in America was slightly off from European sizing. He did not care. He held his hand out to her and beckoned her closer: "Come here."

She kneeled on the bed; he placed his hand on her hip; the feel of the silk moving against her skin under his fingertips drove him to pull her around the waist and roughly to him.

"I've really missed you," he said throatily, before diving upon her with a kiss, anxious to touch all of her at once. His fingers slipped over the silk to cup her breast, causing her to sigh into his mouth; from there they moved back to her hip then to the skin of her leg, lifting the nightie up over her bottom.

He turned so that she was beneath him and he pulled away for a moment to look down at her; her eyes were closed, lips parted, hair splayed on the pillow around her, absolutely breathtaking. He lowered his head to kiss her again, moving quickly to her chin, the lobe of her ear, her throat, all the while feeling her fingernails raking along the skin of his back, driving him completely wild.

_God, do I love you_, he thought.

…

They were curled up together in the big bed afterwards, warm and cosy, she tracing her fingers along the lines of his chest, he lazily combing his fingers into her hair. Their lovemaking had been both as tender and as rushed as expected after nearly two weeks apart.

"I've missed you, too," she said, rather unnecessarily considering what had just transpired, though he liked hearing it all the same. She lifted her eyes to look up at him, smiling sleepily. "The light of your dreary old life, hm?"

He laughed low in his throat, remembering what he'd had written in the card along with her roses. "Absolutely."

Her eyes softened and a smile illuminated her face; he could only think that she could, on her own, light up the dullest, darkest room, warm the blackest of souls.

He began, "I'm sorry I had to miss the day yesterday—"

"I think you have more than made up for it," she interrupted; she then pushed herself up, kissing him again.

…

_Sunday, 16 February_

He was contemplating breakfast, but hadn't yet acted on it, hadn't yet moved from his place on the bed because she was still sound asleep, her cheek against his shoulder. Another whole day in this winter wonderland with her, though as much as he loved skiing, he cared little for actually doing so again that weekend.

He must have dozed again; next thing he knew he heard the low sound of her voice from across the room. He cracked open an eye, shifted position, and saw her standing near the window, through which morning light was diffusing through the sheers. There was a blanket hanging from her shoulders and looped through her elbows, but aside from that it was clear she was otherwise naked. Her head was bowed forward; she was obviously talking on the phone. She was smiling. Definitely smiling.

He watched her; the blanket slipped, and he could see the whole of her from her shoulders to the small of her back, her bottom only just obscured by the loop of blanket. She then shifted to put the receiver on its cradle. He closed his eyes again, feigning sleep. A moment later, he felt the bed sink as she returned to his side. He had a good guess as to what she was doing.

"Bridget," he said, "I've told you a hundred times. Stop watching me while I'm asleep."

He opened his eyes to see he'd been right. She was looking chagrined. "Sorry."

With a tender smile, he reached to pull her to him, running his hands over her back, her hips. He asked, "Who were you talking to?"

"What? No one."

"You were talking to someone," he murmured, "and I didn't give you permission to leave the bed."

She pulled herself closer to him, kissed him. "Forgive me."

"Well…" he began, pretending to think about it. "We'll see."

There was something wonderful about just lying there and holding her close. If not for the fact that he was ravenous, he might have stayed with her like that all morning.

A rumble emanated from her stomach that he could feel against his own; from the sound of things, she was equally ravenous. He tried to stifle his laughter but couldn't help himself.

"Shall we have breakfast, then?" he asked.

"I think so, yes."

He called down for crepes, more of that ridiculously rich hot chocolate for Bridget, and black coffee for himself. They ate in bed, talked and laughed, made plans for washing up and having another run at the slopes, but then he leaned forward, kissed her, and those plans went to the wayside.

…

_Monday, 17 February_

"I'm sorry we didn't get to ski again."

He took her hand as the plane began its descent into Heathrow. "It's all right."

"I know you like to ski, though."

"There are other things I like more," he said, squeezing her hand.

They disembarked, heading for Arrivals and onwards to Baggage Claim. He heard a familiar voice sidle up to them as they walked.

"Mark, Bridget, have a nice flight?" It was Rebecca.

"Very nice," said Bridget tersely.

They stopped walking. Rebecca, with her rolling suitcase and a carry-on bag, gave a light laugh. "Just came in on the express, myself. _Mark_," she said dramatically, turning theatrically-wide eyes on him, then offered in an apologetic tone, "I'm _so_ sorry I suggested Courchevel—I had _no idea_ Bridget couldn't ski. I hope I didn't ruin your Valentine surprise."

"Not at all." Mark turned his eyes to Bridget as she glanced to him demurely. "On the contrary, unequivocally the best Valentine's of my whole life." He watched Bridget smile broadly.

He turned back to Rebecca to catch the tail end of an odd look before she offered a tight smile. "Well, I'm glad to hear," she said in an impatient tone. "Must go, car's waiting. Bye." Rebecca stalked off and away from them.

"Was it really?" Bridget asked once Rebecca was out of sight.

"I did say 'unequivocally'," he said, taking his hand in hers as they started walking again, "and I don't say it if I don't mean it."

And if he didn't mean it, he wouldn't have been wearing football-themed underpants.

_The end._


End file.
